


Beyond the Checkpoint

by vega_voices



Series: Come Rain, Come Shine [14]
Category: Murphy Brown (TV)
Genre: F/M, Idiots in Love, PTSD, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 20:43:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vega_voices/pseuds/vega_voices
Summary: She could get through this. She wasn’t going to give that annoying little girl in the back of her head that giggled like Corky did whenever Peter was in the room any legitimacy. Peter drove her crazy and this planet wasn’t big enough for the both of them and it wasn’t like that damn dance had meant anything. Or like that moment in the stairwell with the donuts hadn’t been one of the biggest turn ons in her life.





	Beyond the Checkpoint

**Title:** Beyond the Checkpoint  
**Author:** vegawriters  
**Fandom:** Murphy Brown  
**Series:** Come Rain, Come Shine  
**Pairing:** Murphy Brown/Peter Hunt (UST)  
**Rating:** Mature for the UST. So much of it. So fucking much.  
**Timeframe:** Post _Ticket to Writhe_ (season 6)  
**A/N:** Really, this story doesn’t exist without Vicki kicking my ass and staying on the phone for hours at a time with me while we figure out things like exactly how they are when they’re away from each other. Also, shoutout to Marv. Poor Marv.  
**Disclaimer:** Diane English is god. She makes the money. The rest of us just play.

 **Summary:** _She could get through this. She wasn’t going to give that annoying little girl in the back of her head that giggled like Corky did whenever Peter was in the room any legitimacy. Peter drove her crazy and this planet wasn’t big enough for the both of them and it wasn’t like that damn dance had meant anything. Or like that moment in the stairwell with the donuts hadn’t been one of the biggest turn ons in her life._

The minute he arrived at the gate, Marv knew this was going to be a long trip and the only thing that made the sixteen hour flight and the interminable wait when they hit customs worth it was the change to work on Murphy’s story. Every generation, in each profession, there were one or two who were gifted above even the best. Who were born to a greatness that was not about aspiring to, but about being near. It wasn’t just about being good. It was about being blessed. And this woman, she was blessed.

She was also a pushy pain in the ass who caused migraines just by existing. But, there was always a payoff for genius, right? Michael Jordan was supposedly an asshole too.

This wasn’t just one migraine of a reporter who needed research help on this story. No. No. Murphy by herself he could handle. But he wasn’t on the road with just Murphy. No, it was Murphy and Peter Hunt. Peter, who was just as professional and dedicated - perhaps not the heads-above-the-rest that Murphy was, but he was damn good. Had an ego to match. And was as attracted to Murphy as she was to him. The last thing Marv wanted was to be sandwiched between them while they flirted like twelve-year-olds.

Yet, he knew, that was right where he would be. Because god forbid they actually just sit together. Nope. He’d be between them, with them throwing notes at each other through him.

Didn’t anyone else see it? Didn’t Miles understand what he was doing by sending them off to the Middle East together? Well, maybe they’d finally get it out of their system and finally fuck each other and his work life could return to normal. He wouldn’t have to watch Peter hang around outside Murphy’s office, pretending he was looking for research information. He wouldn’t have to watch Murphy wander past Peter’s office. He wouldn’t have to witness what he’d witnessed the other day by the stairwell with the damn box of donuts. Fresh donuts. Really? Really!

He’d bought those donuts!

Maybe this trip would be good for everyone. Marv knew he was coming home with a migraine and a new vow to never go on a trip again. Maybe he’d apply for that job over at CNN.

***

Truth was, Murphy was going crazy sitting stateside. Cutting back on her travel had been one of the best things in the world for her relationship with her son. Knowing that Frank or yes, Peter, would be the one to get the middle of the night call for a coup anywhere in the world let her sleep better. She didn’t miss fighting for bunk space with mercenaries, but she did miss being in the field.

After all these months, she needed some action. Anything. She’d pitched the Peace Talks because that was her beat. Those were her connections. She’d been covering the Middle East since the first year of FYI and she had no intention of stopping now.

So, of course, Miles was sending her out with Peter. That jackass. He was egotistical and smart mouthed and thought he could just move in on her territory and just because he had hair worthy of a good tug and always seemed to smell like -

No. What the hell? Why did her brain keep going there?

Just because she couldn’t shake the feeling of his arms around her that night at the Press Club gala, how one song had melded into another and he held her like she was the only woman in the world and did he know that his green eyes had little flecks of brown and were rimmed in just the lightest touch of amber?

Jesus.

This was going to be a disaster.

She could get through this. She wasn’t going to give that annoying little girl in the back of her head that giggled like Corky did whenever Peter was in the room any legitimacy. Peter drove her crazy and this planet wasn’t big enough for the both of them and it wasn’t like that damn dance had meant anything. Or like that moment in the stairwell with the donuts hadn’t been one of the biggest turn ons in her life.

She let out a breath and tried to focus on the here and now.

Eldin came to the airport, toting Avery so she could hug him until they boarded. This was the furthest she’d traveled in a long time and it was hard on both of them. Luckily, Peter was nowhere to be found, which made her life a lot easier since Avery was upset. He was just old enough to start to understand that the airport meant Mommy was leaving and his tears weren’t making her decision to do this any easier.

“I’ll be home in a week, kiddo,” she said, kissing his forehead. “And then we’ll have two whole days together. I promise.” Avery just whimpered and Murphy rocked him against her chest, humming off key Barry Manilow songs. “It’ll be okay,” she whispered.

They called for boarding and Murphy handed Avery off to Eldin. Avery launched into a full scale tantrum, which broke Murphy’s heart. She took her son back, kissed him and soothed him, but they were calling again. The panic of leaving him settled around her heart, squeezing, and Murphy blinked back tears. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Peter appeared at the edge of her vision. Great. Now he could mock her about this too. But he surprised her, walking over, and touching Avery on the nose.

“Hey, buddy.”

Avery’s tears settled just a bit. He was confused by this stranger talking to him, and it broke up the tantrum. Murphy kissed him again, and again handed him off to Eldin. The whimpers began, but it wasn’t a full scale meltdown and so she was just able to wave bye-bye and turned to quickly wipe her own tears away. Damn she hated leaving him.

“They’re calling our row,” Peter said. She was actually grateful that he was focused on the professionalism and not her emotional breakdown.

“Thanks,” she took a breath and shouldered her bag. “Let’s get going.”

“He’s uh … he’s a really cute kid.” Peter offered.

Murphy almost laughed. “You should see him when he’s not screaming.” Peter offered a smile.

They made their way down the jetway. Alone together, out of the office, Murphy waffled between wanting to shove him down the jetway stairs and wanting to shove herself at him. Murphy hung her suit bag in the first class luggage rack and tucked her work bag at her feet. Peter followed suit. She could survive this. She’d work, ignore Peter, and get her story done. There wasn’t that much they were collaborating on for this. They could combine efforts in the editing bay. Or. Something.

She couldn’t stop glancing at his hands.

Peter was getting settled. He too had his stack of notes, all tucked into a classic reporter’s notebook. The moleskin was tattered but holding together. She couldn’t help but smile. She’d had that exact one for years.

Still, it was a long trip. And she wasn’t going to use this to bond with Peter. Although, she said as she slid into the window seat and crossed her legs, not missing how he glanced down at her, it could be a good thing to suss out his weaknesses and later exploit them. She had to get him gone. He walked in, took time on the show, took her overseas time, and made all of them look … better? Younger? Sexier?

God. This was bad.

What was she, twelve?!

***

Peter had to admit that these kinds of assignments were always nice - balconies with flowing curtains around the windows, room service, no bombs keeping them up all night. Well, for now. They hadn’t headed out past the checkpoints yet. They hadn’t headed into the war zone. That was for tomorrow morning, bright and early. Two hours with Murphy in a jeep. At least the crew would be there to distract him.

He stepped out onto the balcony, looking over the expanse of Tel Aviv, letting himself enjoy for a moment the comforts offered to him here. Tomorrow he’d be across the border, into the West Bank, talking with the Palestinian survivors, but right now, it was nice to relax.

A glance left told him Murphy was also on her balcony. She’d changed from her plane attire, dressed now in a loose pair of pants and a tank top that clung just well enough to reveal she wasn’t wearing a bra. He swallowed, nervous that he’d noticed. But since the night of the gala, since seeing her in that dress that highlighted certain features he’d never thought of when it came to her, his mind couldn’t stop his eyes from sneaking glances at her profile, her legs, the curve of her breasts. Her hair was up in a mess on top of her head, held in place by a couple of pencils it seemed. On her lap was a pile of research. Next to her, a cup of tea steeped.

If she wasn’t so utterly irritating, he’d be entranced.

And then he realized she was asleep.

Her head was back on the chair rest, tilted just to the side, her glasses skewed just enough to look uncomfortable.

How often did she really get a full night’s sleep? She was almost always the last one in the office, and going home to a child couldn’t be restful. He also knew where she’d reported from and had a feeling her dreams were a lot like his. The desire to somehow climb over the railing between them to salvage her glasses warred with the reality that scaring her wouldn’t be a great idea. He had a feeling that reaching into her personal space was not exactly on the list of ways to get her to trust you. They were ten floors up. She’d kill him when she pushed him off the balcony. So instead, he sipped his coffee and tried not to feel like a creeper.

A grunt and a groan and Peter stepped back into the doorway of his room lest she know he’d been out there. He heard her mutter to herself, that low tone always reminding him of warm sand on the beach. A tone built by decades of whiskey and cigarettes and running on adrenaline rather than sleep.

“You can come out of hiding,” he heard her call. “You’re not that sneaky.”

Peter chuckled and stepped out of the shadows. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Yes, because knowing someone is lurking is infinitely better,” she rolled her eyes. “I guess the flight caught up to me.” She checked her watch. “Damnit, I was going to call Avery.” She moved the notes off her lap and stepped back into the hotel room, leaving Peter alone on the balcony. He could hear her tone change just slightly, lilting upwards in the way mothers did with their kids. It was strange to even think of her as a mother. But he’d seen it. Over and over again. She was good at it, which surprised him - and made him feel like a dick for what he’d said that night of the first show. Anxiety about being at a desk with these legends had got the better of him.

Curtains billowed in the wind and Peter walked to his chair and sat, glad he could only hear the tone coming from the other room and not the words themselves. This was not a moment for him but he was still connected, and she hadn’t closed the door behind her.

***

It felt like they were never going to get out of the jeep. Then again, the checkpoint alone had been two endless hours of papers and equipment being checked over and over again. She was used to that, but she’d forgotten her damn sunglasses in the hotel room and squinting in the sun for that long was painful. Now, they bounced across the rutted roads as they headed off the grid to contacts they were smart enough to not alert the border guards to and Murphy was sure she had whiplash. She also didn’t miss the slight wince from Peter or how he touched his back as he climbed out of the jeep when it stopped.

She groaned and tried for the 100th time since they’d started out to fix the scarf covering her head. It didn’t want to stay put anymore and the bobby pins she’d used earlier were lost in what was now the disaster of her hair. God. This was exactly how she wanted to approach the dissidents. Dishevelled and disrespectful.

She stood up to free herself from the jeep and was surprised to see Peter’s hand reaching up for her. Without thinking, she took it and couldn’t stop the slight smile that crossed her face as he literally lifted her down and set her on her feet next to him. Their eyes met and Murphy blamed the heat for how her heartbeat quickened or how he leaned, just slightly, into her. His hands moved up from her waist and she hated how much she missed the slight touch when it was no longer there. But he reached around her, took the edges of the scarf, and pulled them up, tucking lightly. His fingers produced one of her bobby pins - it must have been in the scarf - and with a gentle touch, the fabric was secured.

“There,” he murmured.

She should have been pissed off that he’d taken that liberty. Instead, she was more turned on than she’d ever been in her life. “Thanks,” she said, swallowing quickly. “I … it would have taken me a lot longer to get that sorted out.”

He nodded and stepped back and she almost reached out to touch his arm, to keep him close. But he was already walking off with the crew and she had no choice but to catch up and overtake him.

***

They came back to the hotel just as the restaurant was closing. Murphy stared at the dim lighting, hoping room service was still a thing. She was going to eat her own foot. At least the coffee bar was open and she trudged over, her equipment heavy in her backpack, and looked the barista in the eyes. “Medium. With cream and two sugars. Well stirred, okay?” Peter seconded the order. The caffeine would keep her awake long enough to get upstairs.

“Put it on my room,” Peter said, his voice low and tired. “And is the kitchen still open?”

“Room service until eleven, sir,” the girl replied. Murphy checked her watch. Half an hour. Okay.

She took the coffee from the counter and glanced at Peter, who was following along behind. Suddenly, after spending fourteen hours with him, she didn’t want it to end. Which was stupid. She’d just spent fourteen hours with him.

He was an egotistical, self centered bastard. But damn was he good. He was better than good. He was one of the few reporters out there who could give her a real run for her money, and he looked damn good doing it. She’d spent the day watching him interview people, and she was so impressed with his ability to get into the meat of their story. Her skill was in ripping off the bandaid, in demanding honesty. But Peter cared more about the why, not the what, and away from Frank’s insecurities and Corky’s doe eyed infatuation, it was absolutely fascinating to watch. She’d seen evidence of it already - from his stories on FYI to the way he knew just how to needle Frank and reassure Corky, but seeing who he was in action was a heady experience. Too heady, really. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to do something stupid.

“Hey, Petey,” she approached as they stepped onto the elevator, “I know it’s been a long day but we’re both starving and we both have notes to unravel …”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said, looking into her eyes. Her breath caught and she was glad for the equipment and coffee between them. “Your room or mine?”

She refused to acknowledge the way her body tingled in response to the low tone in his tired voice, how everything was suddenly standing on end, how if she stepped even a fraction of a step closer she’d be in his personal space.

“Mine,” she said, clearing her throat. “No offense.”

“Works for me. I’ll dump what I don’t need …”

“Yeah …”

Murphy led them off the elevator and down the hall to their rooms. She refused to allow for how alone she felt as he walked the few feet away to his room, or how she could feel his eyes on her as she opened her door. Stepping inside, she dropped her backpack to the luggage rack, shook her head to clear the fog, and went to wash her face and drag a brush through her hair. She also grabbed a pair of lounge pants and a fresh top - after all, she’d been in hers for fourteen hours and needed to change - and prayed Peter wouldn’t notice that she left her bra off. It was cool in the room. She added a sweater. Just in case.

Coffee still in hand, she unlocked the adjoining door and left her side open before walking back to the phone. The easiest thing was some beef kabob with peppers with a cost that made her glad for her expense account. It wasn’t that she minded spending money, but early on one of her mentors had told her to make the network pay for everything. It was too easy, she’d said, for them to cover everything for the guys in suits but make the women in heels pay their own way. If people took it as her being cheap, that was fine.

There was a knock on the adjoining door right before it opened and she looked up to see Peter coming in. He too had changed, and his feet were bare, which surprised her.

“I ordered the kabobs …” Why was she telling him this?

“Already placed mine,” he countered. “They know to knock here.” Peter stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, and she could only stare at him. He stared back.

In the movies, this would be where he came over brushed her hair off her face. Where he finally kissed her. Where he wrapped his arms around her while pushing her down into the bed and she’d open under him. Murphy took a deep breath, forcing away the image of those hands sliding up under her sweater, his fingers pulling at her currently hard nipples. How would it feel, she wondered, if that talented tongue of his was put to other uses?

Murphy cleared her throat and waved to the room. “Come on in,” she shrugged. Could he tell where her mind had just gone? And was it her imagination, or was he blushing? She knew she didn’t imagine how he cleared his throat and looked away, sheepish, as he entered.

God, could he tell she wasn’t wearing a bra?

He paused. “I think this will go better if I have my notebook,” he chuckled. “Sorry about that.”

“Yeah,” she laughed. “Me too.”

He stepped back into his room for his notebook and she got up to retrieve hers from her pack. He came in and took the seat at her desk, which was fine because her feet hurt and all she wanted was to stretch out on her bed. She propped a couple of pillows up under her arms and opened to the first set of notes from the day. “I think we should start with …” she sighed and looked at him. “Screw it. We need to start with the interviews we did today. All the political mumbo jumbo here doesn’t mean squat unless we tell the stories of the people who are most impacted by these policies.”

“That works for me,” he grinned at her. “So, that means the one I did of the --”

“Oh no, bub. I’ve got seniority. My interview with the Israeli grocer starts us off.” She pressed her toes against the headboard, stretching out the soles of her feet.

“Hey, I think my interview with the Palestinian teenager is the stronger image.”

“The Palestinian teenager isn’t worried about putting people out of work.” She set the outline on a fresh page of her notebook. “Teenager can come second.”

“And who is writing the copy on this?” Peter challenged.

Murphy glanced up and let a slow, sly grin cross her face. “Well, if you want to give the first draft a go …”

“Oh no,” he matched her look, “I’m not that dumb.”

“Just how dumb are you?” She bit her lip and shook her head. “Never mind. It’s too easy.” They shared a smile. “I’ll do the first draft.”

“Why? So you can keep everything you like after I edit it?”

“Well … yes.”

The knock from room service kept the conversation from progressing. Murphy stood up to sign for the bill, but Peter had to sign as well - he’d ordered for his room - and suddenly they were close together in the entry of the room and she could smell his musk and his sweat and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself. So, she pushed past.

After all, a girl had to eat.

***

He ended up on the floor, leaning against the bed. She stretched out above him, her toes pressed against the headboard.

This trip was far more enlightening and enjoyable than he’d expected. He’d always respected her, always been fascinated by her work, and seeing her on a day to day basis was a clinic in how to put stories together. But this was different.

“God … 1968 was my year. We all have them, you know. 1968 was mine. I had the chance to do this study in the field thing and I went to Chicago and worked for the RFK Campaign.”

“Damn … were you there …? Like there? When it happened?”

She shrugged and there were tears in her eyes. “Yeah. A bunch of us travelled out to help with an action for migrant farm workers. It’s funny. I’ve been in so many terrifying situations over the years and it’s that gunshot that stays with me.” She shook it off. “I went back to Chicago to help close things down and over the summer I got involved with a group of even more radical types than me. God. I was getting ready to go back to Penn and the convention happened.”

“You were there?”

“Arrested and everything.” She shrugged. “Kind of solidified my desire to do this, you know. There were so many stories that weren’t told that day.” She chuckled. “Jake Lowenstein was there.”

“I … wow. He really does go back, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah. I have a lot of feelings about Lowenstein,” Murphy said, and he could see the same look in her eyes from when he’d taken the Cuba story from her. When Miles had passed it along and she hadn’t really fought. What history lurked between them? “But he’s the real deal. A lot of activists from that time are now bankers. He stands by his convictions and it’s something honorable.” She grinned. “What was your year?”

Peter sighed and wracked his brain. He didn’t want to be obvious, but wasn’t sure how to broach this topic with Murphy. This was the first real conversation they’d ever had. “Seventy-three,” he said. Truth was, he’d confirmed his desire to be a journalist after getting kicked out of Seminary school, but he’d been drawn there his whole life. “It’s cliche, but there was so much going on that year.”

“Yes, there was,” she laughed. That damn smile made his body tingle and he fought every urge to reach up, touch her shoulder, and see what would happen. It wasn’t like this kind of thing was unheard of. Assignments like this were designed for moments in the dark, throwing off inhibitions, giving into the pressure and the stress and releasing it all before returning to the grind. What would she feel like under him? What would she taste like? The devil on his shoulder taunted him, giving him the image of her in that tank top from the other night, the straps sliding down as she rode him. Groaning, he shifted, bargaining with his body to ease his burgeoning erection.

She had to feel it. It wasn’t just here, in this room at two in the morning. No, there had been the jeep earlier, the electricity as he helped her down, as he adjusted her headscarf. The desert had a strange way of romanticizing everything, but their eyes had lingered for longer than necessary.

Get a grip, he lectured himself. This is Murphy Brown. And if you’ve learned anything about her over the last 3 months it’s that she’s annoying, pushy, is unafraid to ram through people and cars for a story, and will do anything to get her way.

It was just the desert taunting him. Just old patterns coming to cycle. They were away from home, lost in the passion of the story. That was all this was.

So why was it so hard to get up from this conversation?

“What was it like,” he asked. “Interviewing Nixon like you did?”

“Strange,” Murphy replied. Her voice was starting to slide into the gravel of sleep, but she didn’t make a move to kick him out. “He wasn’t what I expected. He still isn’t. He did a lot of good that will be forgotten about, but at the same time, it wasn’t him who did it. He was an ineffective buffon who had people around him who knew how to get things done. Watergate was all him,” she said. “But, I still think he was shocked with how it went down.”

Peter laughed. “That somehow doesn’t surprise me.”

“Every inauguration, like clockwork, he calls me. He wants to know if I know of any tickets to the ball.”

“Really?”

“It’s embarrassing!” Murphy giggled. She actually giggled. Peter smirked at her and the charge between them was enough to pull him to his feet. He had to get out. Now. Before he leaned over the bed and kissed her. Before he pressed her into the pillows, nudging her legs apart with his knee. Before he learned if she tasted as good as she goddamn smelled. No. He was punchy. It was time for bed.

“Good night, Murphy.”

She stared up at him from her place on the bed and he knew, in that moment, that if he did what the devil on his shoulder wanted him to do, she wouldn’t deny him. He could move to her, slide his hands up under her shirt, feel how soft her skin had to be, and she wouldn’t push him away. But what then? Back to the states with this between them? Face down Corky and Miles with their crushes, Jim with his concept of propriety. What if it was only the one night between them? What if he wanted more?

So he cleared his throat as Murphy sat up and pushed her hair back out of her face.

“I suppose it’s time to turn in.”

“Yeah,” her voice was thick, low. “It is.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, after my morning interviews.”

“Yeah. You too.”

She was right there. It would only take a kiss. A moment. He pressed his hand to the back of his neck, cleared his throat, and moved back to his room. “Good night, Murphy.”

“Good night.”

Peter moved back to his room, leaving the adjoining door just slightly ajar. It wasn’t lost on him that she never got up to close her side.

***

The scream would have woken him if he weren’t already up. Israel always brought back memories of being tossed into dark rooms, waiting to find out who was going to demand answers he didn’t have to questions they didn’t need to ask. So he was working, going through his notes and trying to not stare through the open doors at the woman on the bed in the other room. When she sat up in bed, grasping the sheets to her chest, the scream fading quickly but still leaving a chill in his skin, Peter didn’t think. He raced through the open doors and knelt at her bedside, reaching for her hand. It took a minute, but the gasps slowed and she shook her head, pressing her free hand to her forehead. “Shit …” It took another few heartbeats but she pulled her hand from his and smoothed her hair down. “This is embarrassing.”

Peter moved to the edge of the bed and sat, gingerly, looking at her. Her hands were shaking. “This is when I get a scotch but I know that doesn’t work for you.”

“It works too well for me,” she said, her breath still coming in shorter bursts than what was normal. Peter forced away the images in his mind’s eye. For all he knew, she’d dreamed about a cat being hit by a car.

Silence. It lasted just long enough for Peter to convince himself to get up. He patted her foot under the blanket, sure the storm in her mind had passed, and moved back to his room. It was late after all.

“I try not to think about too often …” she said, breaking the silence. “It isn’t like it’s ever stopped me from doing my job.”

Peter turned. Murphy was sitting on the edge of the bed now, pulling a sweater over her top. He wasn’t blind to how she was hiding her body in the moment. God. What were her nightmares like?

“But there are times, especially when I’m here, when it catches up to me.” She took a breath, walked over to the mini bar, pulled out a bottle of cold water, and downed half of it in a couple of gulps. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

The wall was back. The one he’d noticed she kept so high around her that no one dared peek in and see. Most of the time she fired emotional artillery from the turrets to keep people distracted - the slight of hand with her heartstrings that hid how she fought for children through her reporting and how she never stopped telling the stories of women’s struggles for sexual freedom, or how she cried whenever they reported from war zones. It was far too easy to pass her off as just angry and pushy.

“If you want to talk … trust me, there’s reasons I’m up late too.”

Silence. She stared at him, the dream reflecting in her eyes and he knew, somehow, this was one she wasn’t about to share. His mind took him to dark places - mercenaries more concerned with a blonde reporter than their job, dark trunks, bombs going off in just the wrong place. But she shook her head. “Thank you. Really. But I think I’m going to try to get some sleep. Can’t face the Prime Minister on only a couple hours.”

“Okay …” Peter stepped back through the door.

Murphy shut it behind him.

And locked it.

***

Marv had a secret.

It wasn’t one he’d ever deny should it get out, but it was his and his alone.

He’d been working on FYI since 1985. Since Murphy’s drinking had gone from a manageable disaster to the downfall that took her to Betty Ford. His role was that of a researcher, but he was her defacto secretary, her travel agent, and the guy who more than once had intercepted the bottle of Jack sent by a so-called fan, or a competitor. He’d known before anyone else she was pregnant just by the look in her eye. And he did it because he knew, under the exterior she presented, she gave a damn. So, he kept an eye on her. He made sure she was okay. He got himself assigned to all of her out of town stories. If Murphy noticed, she said nothing. But he suspected she presumed it was because research just knew they worked well together. He knew better than to let her assume otherwise.

But his secret was about more than his keeping an eye on her.

He knew she was more than just the woman who got her way because she demanded it, always. Or who brought politicians and corporations alike to their knees.

He knew when she hadn’t slept the night before. He’d learned quickly when she’d been on a bender because a story was hitting too close to home, he’d known when to get the coffee to her, when to give her space. And he knew her work filled the voids the booze once had. He knew full well that she and Peter Hunt were pretending they weren’t already in love with each other, and he knew just by looking at her on the way to the Rabin interview that it had been a rough night.

One glance at her as she emerged from the elevator and Marv was glad he was a researcher. He couldn’t imagine ever recovering from the horrors reporters like Peter and Murphy witnessed.

“Let’s go,” she said, nodding at him as they made their way to where the cars were waiting. Marv held onto her coffee and took her bag of gear - the extra notebooks and recorders - and her suitcase from the bellhop. In the car, she took the coffee without a verbal thanks but did meet his eyes before opening her notes and getting to work. He’d never seen her as rude or pushy. Murphy just wasn’t one to express gratitude for someone simply doing their job. She was far too focused on the moment, the story, to worry about someone’s feelings being hurt because she didn’t pat them on the head and call them a good boy. Personally, he liked her to-the-point nature.

“Mubarak needs to weigh in on this,” she threw behind her. Marv took notes. “And I want a comment from Abdullah as well.”

The rest of the drive was made in silence. Murphy checking her notes, Marv doing the same.

The interview was standard. Murphy had a relationship with Rabin that Diane Sawyer wished she had. (Then again, Diane had a relationship with Clinton that Murphy wished she had.) Marv supervised the crew as they cleaned up, logged and packed the tapes, made sure one spare of everything was in her carry on in case something happened to the luggage.

They sailed through security at the airport and by the time Peter Hunt joined them on the plane, Murphy had the pillow against the window, the blanket over her lap. Marv stood, taking a risk, and gestured to the middle seat, banking on his instinct that Peter was in love with Murphy. Peter glared at him, as any sane person stuck in the middle would do, but slid in. He could have argued, but he didn’t.

Marv smirked as he took his seat. Peter flipped through the emergency cards. Murphy had her notepad out and was working. It was a long flight after all, and there wasn’t any reason to waste time.


End file.
